


How to Write Letters Home to Your Sisters (Notes)

by danahid



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Community: where_no_woman, Gen, International Women's Day, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Reference to Gendercide, Reference to Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danahid/pseuds/danahid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I took the stars from my eyes and then I made a map.</p><p>
  <i>There are rules of diplomacy that you have been trained to follow. There are realities that you have been educated to expect. You are poised and dedicated and intelligent and professional, and there are horrors in the universe that you don’t want your sisters to know. There are false maps to terrible places that you don’t want your sisters to follow. You know that you can’t protect them from everything, but this you can protect them from for a little while longer.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted in March 2010 on [Livejournal](http://danahid.livejournal.com/18386.html) as part of where_no_woman's [Intergalactic Women's Day Mini-Ficathon](http://community.livejournal.com/where_no_woman/81699.html?thread=832291). My prompt was Nyota Uhura and this quote: 
> 
> _I took the stars from my eyes and then I made a map._   
>  _I knew that somehow, I could find my way back._   
>  _Then I heard your heart beating,_   
>  _You were in the darkness too._   
>  _So I stayed in the darkness with you._

 

You consider many ways to begin. You start many letters and set them aside. You are never sure what you will write until you actually start writing.

You have three sisters, all of them younger. You take your responsibilities as the eldest seriously. You have always held yourself a little apart, poised and strong and dedicated, conscious of their eyes following you. You are the trailblazer, the role model, the big sister. These roles are as important to you as anything Starfleet can offer. 

When you left home with your efficiently packed bags and your alphabetized datapads, you promised to write letters home to your sisters. You kissed each of them in turn, and assured them that your letters would be frequent and full of practical advice. You envisioned instructive paragraphs and lists like the ones in women’s magazines.

Your letters are more infrequent than you would like. You usually start with specific replies — guidance about relationships, advice about school, commiseration about parents — but, invariably, your letters veer off-topic. You are not sure how or why it happens. You start every letter to your sisters with the best of intentions, determined to write something that lives up to your responsibilities as a big sister. Somewhere along the way, you diverge from your plan. You find yourself telling your sisters stories that are only tangentially related to the topic you started off with. 

For example, in one of your first letters home, you told your sisters about why you joined Starfleet. _It was a poster,_ you wrote, _a recruiting poster of all things._ The poster showed a female Starfleet officer, one hand raised, fisted and strong, the other outstretched, fingers spread open, pointing the way forward. Her fingertips were lit by sunlight. She was standing in front of a crowd of men, all of them looking up to her as their leader. The poster’s tag line cemented your interest: _WANTED: Leadership That Inspires Officers Under Your Command,_ and then in smaller type: _There are no female Starfleet officers. Only Starfleet officers._ You don’t remember why you ended up telling your sisters this story, but you’re glad you did. _You can choose to be defined by what you achieve,_ you told your sisters, _not which chromosomes you were born with._ This — this world, this life — is what you chose. 

You want your sisters to make their own choices, informed by possibility as much as reality. You want your sisters to choose their lives, not have them thrust upon them. 

This becomes a theme in your letters home.

As you settle into your new life at Starfleet Academy, you write long, chatty letters to your sisters about what you are learning. You start off describing classes and seminars, libraries and lecture halls. You end up writing about your roommate, Gaila, who was born into sexual slavery, diminished as a person because legally she was a possession. _Gaila wakes me up on weekends,_ you write. _She dances around our dorm room in her bra and underpants at 5:30 am every Saturday._ You try to describe Gaila, how when she laughs, her freckled nose wrinkles; how the early morning sunlight bounces off her red curls; how her skin glows green with health. You try to convey just how loud Gaila is when she sings “My Baby Just Cares For Me” at the top of her lungs. _She is so loud that she drowns out Nina Simone,_ you tell your sisters. Despite your best efforts, you are sure that your descriptions don’t do Gaila justice. Your sisters can’t possibly understand from your paltry words that Gaila is gusts and storms of _being,_ that she lives every minute of every day with joy and truth. They can’t understand that when Gaila invites you to dance with her, she teaches you things your instructors only know in the abstract. Because you’re a good big sister, you keep trying to explain. You look up synonyms and draw pictures. In the end, you write: _Freedom isn’t just a word. It’s a way of being._

You hope your sisters understand what you’re trying to tell them.

Two weeks before graduation, you write your sisters a letter summarizing what you’ve learned at the Academy. You list your credentials as the top xenolinguist of your year, the languages and dialects in which you’re fluent, the Starfleet regulations you’ve memorized, the diplomatic protocols you know, the core and command officer classes you’ve nailed. You intend your letter to be a roadmap for your sisters to follow. You read your letter over before sealing it, and realize that everything you know is either already out-of-date or only marginally helpful to your sisters. You think about them and what they should know, and you add a postscript that crystallizes everything you learned over the past four years into five succinct points: _Be prepared for anything. Keep a good head on your shoulders. Trust your instincts as much as your training. Be professional. Never take freedom for granted._

You don’t write home after the destruction of Vulcan. 

As soon as the _Enterprise_ docks, three aching weeks after the obliteration of Spock’s planet, three numbing weeks after the death of your best friend (your chest actually _hurts_ whenever you think about Gaila), you request a comm link to your sisters. There are many requests, and bandwidth is limited, and you tap your fingers impatiently while you wait for the comm to go through. You notice that your black nail polish is chipped, and you couldn’t care less. The universe is different than it was, and everything you are is focused on one thing only: needing to see your sisters, needing to hear their voices, needing to be with them even if it’s only on a subspace channel.

You are able to talk with your sisters for thirty minutes. _Too many others are waiting to contact their families, I can’t in all conscience take more time than anyone else,_ you tell them. You are a role model to more people than them now. They understand this, even if you don’t say it. Your heart clenches when you say goodbye. You trace your fingertip with its chipped black polish over the image of their faces, each one in turn, and you promise to write another letter soon.

After you are posted to the _Enterprise,_ you find it difficult to keep your promise. There are more demands on your time and fewer opportunities to write home, but you still try to send a letter to your sisters every couple of comm packets. You reply scrupulously to their questions and requests, and when your letters veer off-topic, they don’t stray far. You are still their big sister, still their role model. You take inspiration from the stars to create a map for them to follow. You share what you’re learning as a bridge officer and head of Communications on Starfleet’s flagship. You don’t go beyond that.

For the first time, there are stories that you consciously decide not to tell your sisters. 

You don’t tell your sisters about what happened on Yimeng. You don’t tell them about being there with your captain and two security officers, about taking a guided tour of one of the villages after successfully completing negotiations with the governor. You don’t tell them about hearing a woman in labor, hearing her pained moans then the tremulous cries of a newborn. You don’t tell them about the confused look you exchanged with your captain when the baby’s cries abruptly ceased. You don’t tell them about the angry words you heard, then a low sob, then nothing. You don’t tell them about the slight movement you heard in the slops pail by the side of the house, about the tiny foot you saw poking out of the pail. You don’t tell them that you grabbed your captain’s arm, that you held his arm tight enough to bruise, that you stopped your foolishly idealistic captain from throwing himself at that tiny, helpless foot. You don’t tell them that you held him beside you, hissing, “Don’t move. You can’t save it. It’s too late.” You don’t tell them that both of you watched with dry, burning eyes until that little foot stilled. You don’t tell your sisters that you saw a tiny, living baby drown in a garbage pail because she was born a girl, and you didn’t — couldn’t — do a single thing to stop it.

There are rules of diplomacy that you have been trained to follow. There are realities that you have been educated to expect. You are poised and dedicated and intelligent and professional, and there are horrors in the universe that you don’t want your sisters to know. There are false maps to terrible places that you don’t want your sisters to follow. You know that you can’t protect them from everything, but this you can protect them from for a little while longer.

You don’t tell your sisters that you cry yourself to sleep for weeks after the mission to Yimeng.

In your next letter to your sisters, you reply to their questions and requests. You tell them a silly story about your captain and his bizarre allergies, and you remind them of what your grandmother taught all of you as you sat together around your kitchen table: _Mwanamke ni chachu ya maendeleo._ A woman is an important part of development. _Be strong,_ you tell them. _Stand up for what’s right. Be there for your sisters._

In your last letter home before the end of your five-year mission, you tell your sisters what you have always known. You miss them. They are part of you in a way that no one else is. They share your genes and mannerisms, your x-chromosomes and history. You end your letter this way: _Stand in the middle of our backyard at midnight on the third day after you receive this letter. Look up. Find the brightest star in the sky. Reach your hand up and place your thumb on that star. Spread your fingers as wide as you can. Two handspans to the left is where I am. I’ll be home soon. Leave the front light on._

You will see your sisters soon.

**END**

 


	2. Endnotes

International Women's Day is March 8. It is a global day celebrating the economic, political, and social achievements of women past, present, and future. For more information, go to the [IWD](http://www.internationalwomensday.com/) site.

This story was inspired stylistically by both Lorrie Moore and Pam Houston; the title is a specific reference to a short story by Lorrie Moore in her collection, _Self-Help_. 

The story references (adapts) a Marines recruiting poster/ad, which you can see [here](http://graphics8.nytimes.com/images/2008/04/08/business/MarinesPunch500.jpg). 

The story alludes directly to (references directly!) an article in _The Economist_ called ["Gendercide: The worldwide war on baby girls"](http://www.economist.com/world/international/displaystory.cfm?story_id=15636231).  Please note that although this is a well-written and well-researched article, it is also very disturbing.

Lastly, the story includes a Swahili proverb — _mwanamke ni chachu ya maendeleo_ , which translates to mean: a woman is an important part of development. This translation and other Kanga/Swahili proverbs are [here](http://www.glcom.com/hassan/kanga.html).

 **Dedication:** For garryowen/dogpoet, who was this story's beta. Also for my sisters, who are too far away.

 


End file.
